


A father’s son

by wawalux



Series: More words than work [7]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Awesome Foggy Nelson, Bisexual Foggy Nelson, Developing Friendships, Flashbacks, Hot Chocolate, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Foggy Nelson, Late Night Conversations, Law School, M/M, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson at Columbia, Night Terrors, POV Foggy Nelson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26989513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wawalux/pseuds/wawalux
Summary: He is tethering on the edge of resolve, mulling the pros and cons of blurring the boundaries of roommate-hood when Matt says: “I can’t see.”It’s so distinct, even as he shuffles through his whiny thrashing between the sheets. His tone is devoid of all expression, just a mild matter-of fact statement that makes Foggy literally turn to stone as he wonders what the appropriate reaction to that is supposed to be. Is Matt even talking to him?[Matt has night terrors and Foggy tries to make it better by making everything worse. Law school flashback.]
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: More words than work [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888111
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	A father’s son

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for weeks now. It was time to set it free.

The first time it happens, Foggy is not sure if he imagined it. He burrows lower under the covers, letting his nose hover just under the rim of the cotton sheets that still smell faintly like home, acquiesces to the slight discomfort of not having enough oxygen to save his nose from turning black and falling off during the night. It’s only two weeks into his first term at Columbia, and the crisp mid-October wind is sweeping all traces of summer away with merciless accuracy, catching the leftover leaves off-guard when they naively attempt to cling onto that shred of hope that winter is not well on its way. The student dorms are just as useless as predicted when it comes to temperature regulation, the lightest breeze making the windows rattle faintly in their panes, stronger gusts whistling through the gaps and creaking their way in like old joints. Foggy makes half a mind up to sue the place the second he gets his law degree and drifts off to a half-slumber with his mind full of images of him startling the judge with his most eloquent speech. Of course, the judge is also the pretty girl that he took Punjabi for, light olive skin and silky black hair, and she is smiling at him with a look of pure adoration. Maybe they could take the rest of the proceedings to her chambers…

Foggy is jerked back into the present by that sound again, a low nameless keening that is escaping from Matt’s huddled shape like the whistle from a steaming kettle. He freezes, ears straining so hard that he is pretty sure that he would be able to catch the sound of a leaf’s stem detaching from the tree behind their window. But Matt goes eerily quiet again, the way only Matt can when he sleeps, so Foggy relaxes back down, scrunches his eyes tight in an effort to remember exactly where he left off in his previous dream.

Matt does it again a few minutes later, a strange whimper or half a moan, rhythmic like a full stop at the end of each of his breaths that are turning heavier and heavier. Foggy doesn’t need to struggle to hear the sheets rustling in Matt’s bed, his frantic fitful movements and…oh.

OH.

Oh my God, is he…?!

Foggy tells himself it’s normal, they are young and sprite saplings, it’s only natural. After all, it’s hard to find oneself alone in the communal showers and it doesn’t smell ideal in there. Foggy technically _is_ sleeping, maybe he should cut the guy some slack and let him finish. He would expect the same courtesy from Murdock. He has been so polite and an altogether stellar roommate so far, especially considering how Foggy’s sloppiness has sent him sprawling to the floor one too many times. Always with a charming smile on his face, that Matt, disarming like his answers to personal questions, Matt is ready to fill his ears with words. Foggy always realizes too late that he hasn’t actually answered the question. Foggy knows that boy is going to make a great lawyer someday.

Yes, _yes_ , Foggy decides he’ll act as if nothing is happening, shut his hearing up and pretend he is sleeping and oh God NO, stay down Franklin Junior, now is NOT the time to have a sexual reawakening and face his not so platonic attraction for the Adonis that is his new roomie.

Foggy lies perfectly still on his side, complete with fake-even breathing and absolutely no shuffling in between the sheets so that he can pretend that he is sleeping. He then resolves to recite the alphabet backwards in his head to ignore the noises coming from Matt’s bed and _literally_ keep it in his pants. He is utterly lost running the alphabet backwards and forwards to figure out what the holy heck comes before 'q' when Matt starts to move with the desperate edge of a guy in pain, and that’s notwithstanding the actual wounded noises that are sprinting out of his lips. Foggy almost gives up on pretending to sleep to toss the poor guy some lube, maybe offer to walk around the block a couple of times. Foggy’s tried it dry, licked his palm if he’s had to, and it’s never been _that_ painful, even in the early days when he didn’t really know what he was doing.

He is tethering on the edge of resolve, mulling the pros and cons of blurring the boundaries of roommate-hood when Matt says: “I can’t see.”

It’s so distinct, even as he shuffles through his whiny thrashing between the sheets. His tone is devoid of all expression, just a mild matter-of fact statement that makes Foggy literally turn to stone as he wonders what the appropriate reaction to that is supposed to be. Is Matt even talking to him? (Or to…Little Matt?! Is it a thing to let it know because it’s harder when you are blind?)

Foggy stays so quiet he stops breathing.

“I can’t…I can’t see.”

This time it’s louder, more desperate. Panic slowly saturates the words even as they travel to Foggy’s ears. Foggy sits up, confused.

“Matt?” He asks tentatively.

They never discussed the extent of Matt’s blindness. Maybe Matt can see shapes or something. And why has it never occurred to Foggy to ask? (It’s something you ask, right? How blind are you? Instead of ‘I bet the handsome wounded duck thing works with the ladies.’)

Matt’s positively writhing like he caught fire now, head crashing this way and that on the pillow and arms reaching above him as the most distressing whimpers sob out of his throat. His legs kick and bend, and it’s not long before the covers bunch up around his ankles and tie his feet together. That only makes Matt struggle harder, hands poised in mid-air like they are…looking. The pity Foggy swore he’d never feel drops like a stone in his guts.

He jumps out of bed, almost runs to Matt’s side, stupidly grabs the glass of water by his bedside like that could help put out the potential flames. Matt’s a vision even in the dark, his t-shirt ridden up so that it’s more of a scarf (and huh, so that’s what abs look like), eyes screwed shut and shit, shit, there’s tears and sweat in wet streaks all the way down his temples, gluing his hair to his scalp.

Foggy stands there, he fucking just stands there holding a glass of water. He knows he should be trying to help but his mind keeps derailing, wonders about whether blind people can sleep with their eyes open or if he’ll ever be allowed to follow the dip of Matt’s abs all the way down or if Matt’s chest hair is as soft as it looks. Not the point, Franklin, get a grip. And maybe ask him tomorrow when he is not thrashing around like he is being electrocuted.

“Um…Matt?” He tries again, barely above a whisper, like he is afraid to wake him up and get caught standing by his side.

“Dad? Dad! Dad, I can’t see!”

“Umm no man, it’s Foggy. You know me…the guy that sounds like…well. Me,” Foggy finished lamely. There are not enough swearwords in the world for moments like these.

“I can’t…I can’t see! Dad!”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. We’ll figure it out. We can call your dad, ok? Here, let’s call your dad. Yeah, good idea.”

Foggy pep-talks himself into calling his new friend’s dad at fuck o’clock at night because Matt seems to have gone blinder or forgotten he is blind altogether and it seems like his dad may know just what to do. Matt just sounds so desperate; his screams are like icicles tearing right through Foggy. He just wants to make it a little better if he can.

Foggy has never been more grateful for Matt’s almost compulsive neatness where everything is exactly in the right place at all times when he reaches for Matt’s phone on the nightstand. Except how the heck do you use a phone for the visually impaired? It feels like it has the chicken pox, each button is in the wrong place or are the bumps meant to be buttons? Foggy tries to find the contact list while the phone jabbers commands right back at him every time he shifts his fingers.

_Volume off. Volume high. Text message. Voicemail: empty. Read message. Alarm set for 4 AM._

They end up in a screaming match over Matt’s twisting shape, the most epic battle of robots versus humans and Matt who won’t stop telling his dad that he _can’t see_.

And it’s all well and good, they probably woke up the whole dorm but who cares, this might be an actual medical emergency if Foggy could just figure out what the heck is actually wrong. Until, well, this happens:

_Text message: ‘Stop! Nanananana’ sent to: Dan._

WHAT! NO! Shit. And who in the holy mounds of roast potatoes is Dan?!

Foggy drops Matt’s phone like it caught fire, places it neatly back in its place, insides squirming in embarrassment and guilt and tells Matt: “Uh sorry man, don’t worry about it, we can text Dan later and apologize,” while he pats the inanimate object back into submission. Matt all but ignores him, busy being completely terrorized by the fact that he has gone blind.

Foggy struggles not to panic, bites his lower lip hard not to cry and considers hopping about on the spot yelling ‘help!’ until someone who has a clue comes to save them. Should he just dial 911? And say what? ‘My blind roommate has gone blind.’ They might take him to the insane ward instead.

Ok, ok, ok. Maybe this is a night terror. Are you meant to wake them up with night terrors? Or not? Is it like sleep walking? Foggy is impressed that Matt hasn’t woken himself up with the racket he is making considering Matt seems to shift in his chair every time Foggy so much as breathes differently.

Matt makes Foggy’s decision for him when he starts scratching at his eyes so hard that it’s like he is trying to dig his way to China through his face. Foggy steps closer, hands hovering close to Matt’s wrists.

“Hey buddy, on your left, just going to put my hands on your wrists ok?” Foggy wonders if it’s stupid to announce his movements to a blind guy when he isn’t even awake. But there isn’t a ‘Rooming with the blind for dummies’ edition and he is doing the best he can, ok?

“Strictly platonic here, I don’t want you to tear up that beautiful face of yours. I mean. The ladies would never let me hear the end of it, you know? I wouldn’t care. Of course not. I…” Oh SHUT UP Nelson, “right, here we go, incoming.”

It’s harder than he expects it to be, to grab the wrists of a blind guy while he is asleep. Matt is flailing wildly but it feels like he can see him when he accurately dodges his fingers like they are blows. Foggy eventually settles for placing both hands on his left elbow, folding Matt’s arm neatly against his heaving chest, so that at least he won’t be able to inflict too much damage with that hand. Matt is freakishly strong, all lean muscle and pure power under that one arm: Foggy needs to use all his weight to hold him down.

He thinks he is making progress when Matt settles a little, his free arm pausing in its jerky movements. Foggy is about to congratulate himself for his quick thinking when Matt’s right fist collides smack in the middle of his face in what would have been a ninja-accurate kung-fu karate-kid force-of-a-freaking-jedi punch if Foggy hadn’t known for a fact that this guy was asleep _and_ blind _and_ OW. White dots erupt in front of Foggy’s eyes and the world takes on a dizzying spin as his nostrils literally erupt with blood. Foggy lets go of Matt and almost lands on the floor in his haste to smack his hands on his face. He is pretty sure his nose just caught fire, it hurts _that_ much and he is NOT crying, the tears are a natural reaction to his nose being crammed back into his brain.

Lo and behold, _that’s_ what wakes Matt up, his nasal ‘ow ow ow fuck ow’ while he dances around in circles that spin faster than his head and tries to catch some of the blood with his t-shirt so that it doesn’t form a puddle at his feet and he slips and dies on it.

“F-foggy?” Matt’s voice is small and confused and blurry (but then again everything is blurry right now. It might be the tears that are absolutely not there).

“Yeah bud, it’s me, just…gib be a sec,” don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Matt’s eyes are wide open, irises bouncing helplessly around the room and it’s the first time that Foggy’s seen them. Sure, Matt’s been awake before, but he’s always worn his glasses around the room and when they are in public. He also generally goes to sleep after Foggy, hands rustling pages as he quietly reads a book in the dark, and is already showered and dressed by the time Foggy slumps out of bed. And the thing is, they are so beautiful, wide and pure, empty but somehow so full, with thick eyelashes framing them. Foggy can’t stop staring.

Matt runs his fingers over his right hand where he can surely feel the impact of the blow against Foggy’s noggin (which is probably very painful considering how many times his mum has told him that he is as hard-headed as a stubborn pig – and that’s very hard, coming from a butcher).

“Oh my God Foggy. Did I…hit you?”

“No, nonono,” Foggy begins because Matt looks so appalled. He then gives up completely on that line of questioning when he realizes that in a few hours they’ll be faced with bruised knuckles and corresponding bruised face, “Well yeds, a little. Baybe.”

Matt just continues making his stricken face, and boy what a night, for a guy who is always so tame, Matt is surely showing a lot of colors tonight. Foggy is not sure which version of Matt he prefers.

“I…Foggy, I’m…so sorry…I…” Matt can’t even breathe properly and he is already trying to apologize.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. My fault. I shouldn’t have…That was a good one, man. If you fail as a lawyer you should def consider a career as a boxer!” Foggy tries to turn it into a joke, even smiles under his bloody t-shirt, forgetting that Matt won’t be able to see it.

That’s apparently 100% the worst thing he could say. Matt pulls a face that is possibly even more devastated, like he has just accidentally ran over a family of baby ducklings and then stepped on the only one that was still alive when he ran out of the car to try and save them.

“Not that you’d fail as a lawyer, I mean look at you, studying all the time,” Matt is broken, broken, broken, “not that you study too much, I mean it’s normal, I ah…” Foggy waits for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Preferably five minutes ago. It doesn’t.

Matt sits there, all ruffled, looking like someone just stabbed him straight in the heart but he wants to apologize for it. He strokes his knuckles absentmindedly and keeps his head bowed, his shoulders still heaving occasionally. Foggy is convinced he must’ve accidentally swallowed his tongue, something is definitely off in the pit of his stomach. He can’t seem to figure out how to form another sentence.

“We should…ice that. Your…your nose,” Matt tells Foggy eventually. Foggy nods. Curses.

“I just nodded. And your hand, we should ice that too. That can’t feel too pretty.”

Matt shrugs. Foggy leads the way to the kitchen for lack of things to say. He almost expects Matt not to follow, but when he turns to check Matt is already up from bed, trying to flatten his hair with the palm of his hand. He watches Matt reach for his glasses.

“You don’t have to wear them for me. I don’t mind,” Foggy doesn’t know what makes him say that. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe he has a concussion. Who knows, next he’ll be telling Matt he doesn’t need to wear the shirt either, as far as Foggy is concerned. He blushes furiously, somehow making his nose throb harder.

Matt seems to consider it, one hand adjusting the collar of his rumpled t-shirt like it has suddenly shrunk in size, the other picking the glasses up and then returning them to his nightstand. He gives a curt nod and walks unsteadily to the door, hands reaching for the cane that is hanging on a hook by the wall next to their jackets. Foggy stops him halfway, traps Matt’s hand and places it carefully on the crook of his elbow the way Matt showed him on their first day. Matt seems to tense, shoulders heaving in an echo of a sob. Then his fingers nestle deeper against Foggy’s skin, like they are searching for some heat, and he takes that as his cue to move.

Their kitchen isn’t big, and it’s not exactly theirs either. They share the tiny room and four hobs with the rest of the floor, hence most students invest in their own mini-fridge and stock non-perishables in their own bedrooms. The floors are sticky and the countertops coated in obscure remnants of student meals, which means that most students prefer to survive on the canteen food instead of on their lack of cooking skills. But the freezer is usually well stocked with forgotten packets of ice and frozen meals. Foggy leaves Matt by the tiny table that he has never seen anyone use, except as a mini-bar in the ‘welcome to the floor’ party, and makes a beeline for ice. He steals a packet of frozen peas that has seen better days and a places a handful of ice cubes in his ruined shirt.

Matt’s face is all scrunched up like he can smell every shadow of a failed meal and it’s rotting remnants. His knuckles are white where he is gripping the back of the plastic chair. Foggy carefully settles the peas where the reddened swelling is already beginning to blossom, tries and fails to catch Matt’s eyes (yup, still blind), but waits to let go until Matt’s free hand moves to hold the peas in place.

He winces and bites his tongue not to hiss when the ice cubes touch his nose, loving and hating the feel at the same time. Matt’s head jerks his way a little, like he heard his mind or something. The bleeding seems to have stopped at least, but the rim of the bags under his eyes are already ballooning out. Foggy knows he’s going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow, and is glad, for the first time, that Matt is blind and won’t be able to see it.

They stand there, awkwardly, in the too bright neon light for what seems like forever, time trickling along in careful drops like a leaking tap, the whisper of the wind outside the tiny window a reminder of the too-thick silence within the room. It’s like the packet of peas is freezing Matt’s soul, he is so still, a frown that could mean a thousand things and nothing at all carved on his face, until the lines are etched so deep that Foggy worries they’ll become permanent. His head keeps twitching in Foggy’s direction and Foggy doesn’t know what he can hear.

“Can I…” Matt hesitates, lifts the peas off his knuckles, “can I touch you face?”

Foggy’s heart splutters in his chest. His whole body, brain, skin, dick, heart unify for the first time in his life to scream a resounding YES. His lips stay as they are though, gaping to let air in and out of his chest when his busted nose refuses to do its job. He must have misheard. It can’t be.

As if on cue, Matt lifts both palms up defensively.

“Your nose…I…I want to check if it’s broken,” he trails off, takes a step towards Foggy, shakes his head, stops. Foggy doesn’t remember how to move. Somewhere, someone, somehow, makes his shoulders shrug. Foggy wonders about divine intervention for the first time. He doesn’t realize that Matt shouldn’t have seen him shrug, Matt is blind. Matt is also right there, an inch away from his nose, gently prying the bloodied t-shirt containing the ice away from his face. Foggy’s hand falls limp to his side, scrunches the ice in the fabric a little too hard, hears it crack loudly in the silence.

Matt’s touch is cold, ice-cold like the frozen peas, but it skims delicately against the fire on his face, puts out the flames like the gentlest breeze. A new fire blazes in its wake, one that runs deeper than the pain, that zings like electricity down Foggy’s spine. Matt’s eyes are open, and it’s hard to feel that they are empty when they are close, so close. So beautiful. Foggy is hypnotized by all their shades, the green flecks merging into brown, the subtle golden rays, like sunlight in a forest.

Matt’s methodical, thorough, strangely accurate. He never strays from the injury, mapping its contours like he’s been given GPS coordinates, staying longer in some places, skimming others. If he is hurting Foggy, Foggy doesn’t realize it. He is too busy thinking of where he’d like those fingers to travel to next, down to his lips, up to his hair. His heart follows his desires, beats loud, loud, loud in his ears. Foggy _wants_ in ways he can’t even define.

It’s over before Foggy’s fully understood what is even happening. Matt’s hands drop and he takes a step back, then another. He turns to head back to the table, starts toying with the peas, making them shift from one side of the packet to the other.

“It’s..uh...it’s not broken. Foggy…I…”

Foggy wants to ask him what he is talking about. What’s not broken. He gapes. Matt fades back into a frown. It’s a long time before Foggy’s blood finds its way back to his brain.

“You know what we need?” He suddenly announces to the room at large, like he is speaking to a chattering crowd and not to the shell of his former roommate, “we need a Nelson hot chocolate. What do you say, man? Fancy one?”

Matt unfolds slowly, seemingly surprised to find himself in the kitchen in the middle of the night, like part of him is still trapped in the nightmare. His face lifts up to meet Foggy’s and his hand jumps to fix the glasses that he isn’t wearing. He runs his hand through his hair instead, flattening the already flat strands, always missing the same few that are sticking up around his neck. He stares at Foggy blankly, like he isn’t sure if he wants a hot chocolate, or if he knows what a hot chocolate is, or if Foggy is a living being and not another appliance in the kitchen.

Foggy shrugs, drops the remaining ice cubes in the sink and his t-shirt on his shoulder and gets to work. It’s easier to talk when his hands are busy. Easier to find a way back into himself.

“You’ll love it man, trust me. Nelson hot chocolates are nothing short of magic, they kill boogeymen and cure you of any illness. It’s my great-grandma’s super-secret recipe, passed on from generation to generation to only the worthiest of Nelson’s.”

Maybe that’s why the recipe hasn’t been passed on to him yet. The part about a secret phenomenal recipe is true. Slight issue is that Foggy has no idea what’s in it. Can’t be hard to guess though, right? It’s a hot chocolate. And it’s not like Matt would know the difference.

He potters about opening cupboards and slamming them shut while he looks for usable ingredients. Milk, chocolate, cocoa powder. Cinnamon? Why not. Marshmallows? SCORE. He sets them all on the counter, making a mental note to buy a coffee to each of the poor people he is robbing tonight. He tries not to cast furtive glances at his roomie, who still seems shell-shocked, mouth gaping like he is trying to force some words out and they are just that stuck.

“Hey man, do you want to call your dad while I do this? You can borrow my phone if you like, just give me the number and I’ll dial it for you, no problem,” Foggy has his back turned to Matt, busy looking for a saucepan that doesn’t have a layer of grime encrusted on the bottom, “Who’s Dan by the way? I think we may need to apologize to him…”

He finally turns and the rest of his words evaporate at the sight of Matt, who has gone so rigid you could crack him in two. His face is…horrified. Just-seen-a-corpse horrified. Foggy wants to turn to check for ghosts behind him.

“Matt?” He croaks tentatively.

“Yeah, yeah…I’ll just um…go and take care of that,” he tells him in a stranger’s voice. The packet of peas lands with a smack on the cold linoleum floor and Matt high tails it out of the kitchen, seemingly unaware that he doesn’t have a cane, or even that he is blind considering how easily and swiftly he makes his way out of there. Foggy is left with a pot of milk that is hissing as it boils over, the smell of burnt permeating the room and the horrible realization that he is doing something wrong, something very wrong, and is smudging it in worse than a stain every time he tries to fix it. Matt will probably ask for a new roommate first thing tomorrow.

Foggy moves the pot to the sink and stares at the jet of water diluting the white of the milk for a long time. He kind of wants to go back to bed, fall asleep and hope to wake up and find that this was just a nightmare. But he is also a coward and too much of a wuss to face Matt right now. There’s only one thing he can do.

He scrubs the pot until it’s sparkling, pours out a new pint of milk and starts again with the care that he would have used if he had been given the chance to start the night over again. The milk gets heated but doesn’t boil over. Foggy melts the chocolate in it, adds a spoonful of cocoa, a dab of sugar, a sprinkle of cinnamon. He pours the thick hot chocolate in two slightly chipped mugs that he washed clean just in case, adds a tiny pinch of salt as an afterthought and all the marshmallows he can fit (he’s going to need them). He thinks it could probably do with a dash of whisky too, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The hot chocolate is almost cool enough to drink by the time he gathers the courage to take it back to the bedroom, taking careful steps that won’t spill the liquid onto the floor or his heart out of his chest. He opens the door with his elbow after taking a deep breath, like he is afraid there won’t be enough air in the room. The room is dark and it takes a while for Foggy’s eyes to adjust after the brightness of the kitchen. He doesn’t turn on the light though, just makes his way to Matt who is sitting cross-legged on the floor by his bed, his back against his mattress. He’s toying with something in his hands, something that shines in the low light coming from the window and that flows like water between his fingers. His glasses are next to him on the floor, like he put them on and changed his mind soon after.

“Hot chocolate, three o’clock,” Foggy whispers, throat tight, irrationally afraid that Matt may just ignore it, ignore him, discover, finally, that Foggy is not cool enough to be his friend. But Matt’s hands reach out even when his face doesn’t, let go of the fabric on his lap long enough for Foggy to read the name stitched in a light color on the back: “Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”

His legs almost fold in relief, and Foggy lets them go the rest of the way down so that he is sitting with his back to the wall and facing Matt. He finds a thousand questions next to the outline of a battered pair of boxing gloves in a duffel bag by Matt’s leg.

He takes a sip just for something to do, surprised when the most perfect blend of thickness, heat, chocolate and spice reach his tongue. Foggy almost stares at his hot chocolate, wants to check the label on it to make sure someone else hasn’t made it and swapped it with his mess when he wasn’t looking. It’s not like his mum’s at all, but it somehow still tastes like familiarity and home, makes Foggy feel a little braver, a little less alone, like he could become the man he was when he told his family that he wanted to become a lawyer instead of a butcher. He takes another sip, almost umms it’s so delicious, feels something similar to pride swell in his chest, and then watches with bated breath as Matt lifts the mug to his lips.

The face Matt makes is almost a smile, something that uncurls the frown but doesn’t quite turn it upside down. His eyes close and Foggy knows where he is going, wherever home is for Matt. Maybe traditions are not about following a recipe, about getting the taste just right. Maybe traditions are about bringing home to where you are, to find that smell or texture or flavor that can carry you back.

“This is good,” Matt’s voice is hoarse, like old engine gears that need to be oiled, “I haven’t had a hot chocolate in a while.”

There it is, that look again. Foggy watches the thought of a smile wash over Matt’s features and melt off before it can take hold.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Foggy asks his hot chocolate like it can be optional for Matt to hear him or ignore him. He nurses each sip, feigning casual disinterest, while he casts furtive glances at Matt, watches the curve of his Adam’s apple bob up and down with each swallow, learns the exact point in which his stubble ends, the bits of baby’s skin that still don’t need to be shaved. It’s funny how much bolder he feels, staring at Matt in the semi-darkness, like the lack of detail is permission enough for him to do as he pleases.

“My dad’s…umm…my father’s dead. My parents…Anyways, I grew up in St. Agnes, not far from here,” Matt’s facing his mug where the dregs of his beverage are swirling in residual steam. He speaks low like he is revealing something he is ashamed of, but his chest puffs up in a dare, _don’t you feel sorry for me_.

“Oh fuck,” Foggy wants to die. Literally drop dead and die. He is so glad that Matt punched him in the face because he thinks he probably would have punched himself otherwise, “I mean, I’m sorry man, I…”

Foggy doesn’t know death, no more than in the funny smell that is the memory of his grandfather’s suit and the feel of a tie that he so didn’t want to wear when he went to his funeral at the edge of five. He remembers only glimpses, a wrinkly smile as big as the world and a coarse stubble, how it would sting when rubbed against the back of his pudgy hands. And then the rain, on that confusing day, his mum had told him that even the sky was crying because pop was gone.

“It’s ok, it was a long time ago,” Matt shrugs, placed the mug on the floor to his side.

Can loss ever be a long time ago? Can it stop hurting like it’s not fresh? It’s that silence that they leave behind, their bodies absent in a way that is more than just heat, blood and sinew. It doesn’t matter who takes their place at the head of the table or who talks loud enough to cover the pain, death lingers like a presence, a constant absence that can’t be filled.

Foggy doesn’t know what to say. He seems to have said every wrong thing tonight, one after the other, rehearsed, like lines from a play. He sits there quietly, tries not to spook Matt while his lips work through his next sentence.

“He…uh…was a boxer,” Matt’s hands trail the length of the fabric on his lap like an explanation, “not a good one, mind. He never got knocked out, my Dad. Knocked down, sure, but he always got back up,” there’s a fierce pride in Matt’s eyes, one that Foggy’s never seen, it burns like a fire behind his irises, heats him even through the dark.

Foggy watches Matt morph into a father’s son, sitting cross-legged in front of him. He sees the fierceness and the strength, the power behind the careful hands that are stroking the boxing gloves in the bag. He has to clear a lump from his throat before he can speak.

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. The legend definitely lives on in you,” Foggy’s nose smarms in agreement.

Matt almost grins, it’s more of a grimace, but his posture changes, like he is stepping into a new pair of shoes, one that he wanted to wear for a lifetime but wasn’t sure they would fit. He traces his bruised knuckles again.

“I’m really sorry, Fog, I…” he shrugs, but lifts his head up so that his eyes can hover around Foggy’s eyebrows, “I was dreaming of the accident, my eyes, I…I’m so sorry.”

“Hey man, you kidding, I’ll be the coolest kid in school!” Foggy brushes Matt’s apologies away, “You just wait until I tell everyone about how I bravely fought off a burglar with nothing but my bare hands.”

Matt lifts his bruised knuckles with a smirk, like he is pointing out how quickly that story will unravel once they put the two together.

“You make an excellent point almost-counsellor. How about we tell them it was a pledging ritual to join a frat?”

“Ha, and what frat would let a blind guy in?”

“As if that’s even a point. You’re far more likely to get into a frat that I ever will be, perfectly-sighted and all.”

“Right,” Matt makes a face like he doesn’t quite believe him but lets it go, “so we tried to join a frat. You got a specific frat in mind or is this some kind of ‘fight club’ situation?”

“First of, you referenced ‘fight club’ and just for that you win extra points. Second, well, I don’t have a frat, but I do have a family. Consider yourself an honorary member of the Nelson clan now, Matty,” Matt’s face does a funny thing when he calls him that and Foggy thinks he could do with seeing it more often, “I mean, I don’t know who told you the rules about our initiation ceremony, but punching me in the face and then gulping down this mess of a hot chocolate like a champ are def points A and B on the rule-guide and guess what bud, you nailed both! Now you just have to go ahead and annoy the crap out of my sisters and you’ll be a fully-fledged Nelson before you know it. Gah, I bet my parents will try to exchange you for me. We really need to work on your sloppiness man, I mean really, you’ll make them think they got the worst end of the stick with me.”

Foggy knows he is rambling but he can’t stop, not when Matt’s watery smile is surfacing like submarine, slow and overwhelming, and he still can’t stop staring at those beautiful big empty eyes, so soft in all of Matt’s hardness. He keeps expecting them to come to life if he punches in the right combination, but instead they wander somewhere around his nose.

Foggy extends his leg, slowly, like he is stretching, and tries not to think of it as a classic but in reverse cinema theatre move when he lets his socked foot nudge Matt’s bare one gently. He continues to list which cousins Matt will have to ingratiate himself with and exactly how to annoy each one when he feels Matt’s foot nudge back and turn to rest tentatively against his ankle. Matt nods along and even laughs and Foggy can’t stop, he can’t stop, it’s the feeling of a hot air balloon taking flight from his stomach, it’s chocolate chip pancakes on a Sunday morning, it’s that first sip of beer when you absolutely shouldn’t be allowed to drink.

Matt’s foot is touching Foggy’s and Foggy rambles on till dawn, heart tottering in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if I wanted you to smile or cry with this one. I got a little lost in both. I hope you did too.
> 
> (come find me on tumblr - https://wawaluxthings.tumblr.com/)


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